Circle of Life

A mystery leads to a new member of the cast.

I’m hoping you all can help settle a dispute I’m having with Bridget. How long should a tree-trimming husband be allowed to attempt his own rescue while dangling from a safety line over the edge of a 160-foot cliff before his wife can call the fire department?

In other news this week, I discovered a giant silk moth drowned at the bottom of our fountain and fished it out—a lifeless beauty in my palm. I set it atop the fountain as an offering to one of the many birds that visit regularly. Two hours later I found it drying its wings in the sun. I sat and contemplated this resurrection until it finally rose up and disappeared into the sky.

Speaking of the fountain, I’d like to introduce you to one more character in this cast of island misfits that has been the cause of much mystery and mischief.

It was a summer morning much like any other except for the murder that had taken place at the fountain the night before. Unfortunately, we recognized the victim right away. But whom does one call to report the death of a favorite toad? (You might remember Lucile from my piece about the toads here.)

We knew it was Lucile because her skin was perfectly intact, as if she had simply unzipped herself and walked off naked into the world. A taxidermist could not have done better. Knowing that western toads excrete a skin toxin when threatened, I was perplexed. Clearly something strange was afoot, something smart enough to skin them.

The first clue came when I began finding our fountain splashed half empty and the water that remained absolutely filthy with a flotsam of seaweed and fish guts. After a frustrating afternoon of messing with routers and wires for cameras I ordered online, Inspector Winfield was on the case.

Turns out the fountain is a lively place at night. Bats skim the surface for sips of water and raccoons occasionally troop through to crack snails and wash them with their strangely human hands before eating them. Once a raven landed on the fountain’s column and glared right at the camera for an hour as if it had a message for me from the underworld, which was unsettling. But mostly I just watched a mosaic of slugs crisscrossing the walk at 10X speed and saw nothing that touched the toads as they fed on insects drawn to the path lights and then returned at dawn to bathe in their pools. The mysterious culprit had clearly made the surveillance net.

As summer progressed, the case went cold. Then one afternoon as I was painting our front door a friend called to tell me the winds were perfect for flying, a rare thing in summer here. Off I rushed, leaving the door closed but with no latch, handle, or locks. It’s a pretty safe island after all, at least as far as humans go.

I had just landed my paraglider when my phone rang.

“Yes, honey?”

“She’s in the house!”

“Who’s in the house?”

“You left the door open and she’s inside.”

“What?”

“In our bedroom.”

“Who?”

“Some crazy otter thing.”  

When I got home I found my wife in her car in the driveway. Together we crept through the house carrying garden tools, neither of us having any idea what a cornered otter is capable of. (We didn’t have the cat yet or things might have gotten interesting.) Fortunately, the otter had exited on its own, but not before leaving a trail of slimy prints all over the house and a pile of greasy shit in the living room.

The next morning my camera caught her visiting our fountain as if it were a spa.

Anyway, now you’ve met Olivia, our resident North American river otter. After each of her visits I have to empty the fountain and clean it, and sometimes collect her poop and bury a toad skin too—which makes me wonder if I’m not a disappointment to our ancestors that struggled to earn us our place atop the food chain. A friend suggested I lie in wait and pelt her with a pellet gun, but I think I’ll just keep her bath water fresh instead. She’s fun to watch. And besides, what better gift to give oneself than the honest sense of virtue one feels from having power over something smaller or weaker and refusing to use it.

Below are some photos taken by Bridget this last week, including most of the current cast of characters here. She kindly agreed to delete the cliff rescue record.

P.S. As I passed by the window to get my coffee this morning, a great horned owl rose from the deck and flew off into the trees. I finally went out to see what the fuss was about and found a perfect pair of robin wings and a small pile of feathers but nothing else. The circle of life turns ever on and on.

Wishing you all a blessed week.

An audio recording of this essay can be found here:

Audio: Circle of Life